“A Fuck of a Night”

Art by Yoko Tanji

Art by Yoko Tanji

Sam was a small man even among regular folk. Out here, tonight, he felt like a bug. Still though, he was happy to step out of the darkness of the tree-lined avenue into the open square where the buzzing lights cast a monochrome silver tableau before him.

He was relieved for a moment to see what had to be a man in the far corner of the square, leaning one-legged against an old wooden telephone pole smoking. His other leg was crooked back behind him, foot on the pole, affecting the rakish, relaxed look of a model in an old cigarette ad.

Sam’s fingers weren’t sticking together anymore. The blood that was left had dried and would have to be washed off if there was water or scraped it there wasn’t. He shuffled toward the tall man, one shoe on, one missing, hesitating only when he realized how large the fellow really was. Up close, he looked less relaxed and more gaunt, like an anxious scarecrow.

For a moment Sam wondered if it really was it a man he was seeing before him or an apparition leaning against the pole. Standing before him he had to crane his neck back to see his face.

“Excuse me”, Sam said, looking up. “I’ve had a fuck of a night. Can I bum a cigarette?”

The head above him swiveled his way then pitched downward carefully, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t smoke”, he said in a flat guttural voice that betrayed no accent. A streetlight glinted in his dark eyes-the light glancing off the dead one like a skipped stone-the other flaring hot for an instant, then fading.

Sam backed into a shadow away from his gaze but the head had swiveled away.

“I wanted to see if he’d give you one.”

He turned and noticed the girl against the wall. She was even smaller than he was-but not a child. Just a girl in bare feet and torn back dress.  Nothing special-plain. In fact, in the light, she looked like a pencil sketch of what a plain girl should look like.

“He said he doesn’t smoke.”

“I know him. He doesn’t.”

He looked back once more at the cloud circling around the pole. She took his hand to lead him down an alley out of the openness of the square. At her touch he felt himself thickening.

“I’ve had a fuck of a night”, he said letting himself be led.

“I know. Come on.”

The apparition didn’t turn to watch them go. They mattered not a whit to him. He smoked in peace, scanning the sleeping world above their heads.

3 a.m.

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What are you even doing here?
The Love of my life?

Hardly.
She’s in Houston with her kids,
And his.
When I dream of her I wake a rock-
Head full of all the soft, wet places.

You?
Gravel and jagged edges-
Broken glass
Desolate highways with no lights,
No guiderails.

You took my heart; never given.
Smashed it, killed it, left it lie.
Didn’t wish you dead, but now that you are,
Stay there.

I’m cauterized-
Like a drunk needing a bottle when once a cocktail would do-
I must dig deeper and deeper to feel the
Pain you used to visit so cavalierly
With a word. A gesture.

I’ll stab at my skin with a sharp spoon,
Drive nails between my toes,
Tear my hair and rend my guts to wear
As braids.

I always feared I would see you in hell
To again be choked on your leash.
But I’d hoped to die first.

Go back to poling the River Styx
Ferrying the damned from sulfurous shore
To sulfurous shore
And leave me be.
I’ll see you soon enough.

Fuck you
Fuck you
And fuck me.

I’d give my left nut for the sunrise.

 

 

 

 

“…A Failure to Communicate”

She turned away from the window to light the cigarette she’d kept in a plastic bag hidden in an old purse with a wooden match from the candle drawer. In the utter darkness of the house the yellow flame burst brightly until she sucked deeply and shook it out.

“Fuck!” she whispered when she saw the red glowing dot of the tip reflecting back from the glass. Could he see it? She palmed the butt next to her thigh and squinted trying to regain her night vision. There was nothing. More correctly, she could see nothing. But he was out there.

Beyond the lawn and the rhododendrons, across the property line and beyond the subtle rises that she knew to be remains of Civil War trenches that existed undisturbed in these woods for 150 years. “If you didn’t know they were there, you might not know they were there”, said the locals. Over the old stone foundation of a house gone before she was born was an oak tree. It was probably there when the old house was built and stood powerfully if charred by a lightning strike on V-E Day-or so said nosy old always-in-your-business Millicent Fenwick at the library.

“It’s a four by eight sheet of three quarter inch exterior plywood”, he had intoned when she asked him if it would hold him. Those numbers meant nothing to her, she wasn’t a builder but neither was he. Still, he said “It’s a four by eight sheet of three quarter inch exterior plywood” in such a way that she guessed she should be impressed. He had taken this sheet of plywood and somehow wedged it between the three large main branches of that old oak about ten feet off the ground and “stabilized it with three two by four struts screwed right into the trunk.” She stared at him and he repeated it; more than a few times. Could just have well been speaking Mandarin-she didn’t know or care what a fucking strut was.

“Hear your husband’s building a tree stand back off the old Warner place”, Mrs. Fenwick had said, taking the cards out of the back pockets of the books she was checking out. “My husband Elmo, God rest him, used to hunt those woods. Got more than deer back there, you ask me.”

Her eyes adjusted and she could see beyond the yard into the black of the woods. She even imagined that she could see the top branches of the oak drawn against the silvery starlit night. She hadn’t minded when he moved from their bedroom to the spare room. That was a lie-it bothered her-but it had happened gradually. One night a week, then two, always a perfectly acceptable reason: he had to get up early, his back was a little off, he “felt a good snore coming on…” Then it had become semi-permanent.

Getting used to that wasn’t easy but at least she could still hear him breathing and rolling around and, at three a.m. precisely, getting up and walking to the bathroom. Sometimes he would veer into what he had begun to call “her” room and slip into “her” bed so that they could get into some of their nighttime business but that wasn’t happening anymore.

Because now he had taken to sleeping in a fucking tree.

At Dawn

httpn0thinggoodeverstayswithme.tumblr.com

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It was a dream, within a dream
Wrapped in a memory.

The streets were wet and empty-
Deserted in the middle of another rainy night.

Running fast to no end, but as the distance rolled out
Found it easier to drop to all fours and gallop.

Hands clattered along the shiny brick
As a dog’s claws on ceramic.
Slipping left-sliding right;
Gaining precious purchase then sliding back,
Making no progress.

I was telling this to my Aunt Peggy-
Not in her doughy middle age-
But as she had been.
Slim and boyish; twenty-five to my
Lusty Sixteen.

She leaned close,
All overbite and collar bones
And told me that I should.
That she would.

I whiffed flowers
Hyacinth-
At the base of her neck.

You should, she whispered,
Eyes wide open.

Her mouth tasted of spearmint.
Her soft tongue,
Alive and welcoming.

You should, she whispered.

 

“Venus and Mars Are Alright Tonight…”

(Continued from A Halloween Tail…)

He drifted off to the twinkling array of stars splashed across the moonless night above the ridge. The heavy November comforter made for a pleasant weight pressing him gently down into sleepy submission. Tomorrow he would definitely look for his old star chart to see if those three in a row were Orion’s belt or just a dipper handle. Tomorrow. He’d forget of course…it…really…didn’t…matter…as he drifted into dreamless sleep.

When he next cracked open one eye the room was still dark. The stars had scattered as Venus, this month’s morning beacon, had broken above the tree line. She gazed down upon him indifferently; offering neither warmth nor consolation, just a herald of night turning into eventual morning. But still, he found the company somehow comforting in its implacable permanence.

He had almost let his eyelid slide shut when he knew-didn’t feel, but knew-he wasn’t alone in the room. It wasn’t a sound, it wasn’t a smell; it was just that feeling that alerts a solitary person when someone enters his orbit.

He opened his other eye and lifted his head scanning the room until he saw her sitting on the rickety old wooden chair against the far wall away from the windows. She wasn’t moving and-as far as he could see-not breathing. Say what you will about Venus, but she doesn’t throw much light and in that corner of the room the shadows were ground ink.

“Good Morning, Mr. No”, she said, her voice both raspy and young-like a child with a cold. “Because it is morning, after all. The sun just doesn’t know it yet.” There was a general tittering around the bed and the rustling of what sounded like dead leaves on the hardwood though there were no leaves in his room. He cut his eyes to the sounds but saw nothing.

The ever creaky old chair made no sound as she rose and approached the foot of the bed. She appeared small and petite in the gloaming with bright yellow hair this time-as much as he could see of course-because on top of her head was his hat-which he hadn’t seen since that day at the ruins.

“Do you still wear my brand, Mr. No?” she asked. The rustling around his bed swelled and he could almost feel a breeze, or more correctly, many small breezes swirling from all directions.

“Brand?” he asked. Or thought. He wasn’t sure he had spoken. “What brand?”

The tittering got louder as if he were being laughed at and the breezes coalesced into caresses then touches then finally grabs that he couldn’t resist. He struggled against unseen hands pulling and pressing until, with a wrench and a yank, he was flipped onto his stomach. The cool air of the unheated bedroom prickled at his bare skin. The tittering laughter rose again.

He felt the bed shift as she crawled up onto it. “There it is…” she said as he felt her finger trace the outline of the tiny handprint on his ass. “This binds you to me, Mr. No. You realize that don’t you? You wear my mark.”

“Look. I…What do you want?” this time he knew he was talking. He just wasn’t sure what he was saying. He couldn’t move beyond a wriggle. Forces that he could not see pulled his legs apart. She laughed and the bed shifted again.

“No-don’t”, he cried fearing another whipping.

She moved behind him-closing between his legs until he felt her presence on the insides of his thighs.

“No whipping for you tonight, Mr. No”, she said as if reading his mind.

He felt her tiny, cold hands spread his cheeks and her body lean closer.

“No! Don’t do that…Please don’t do that…” he cried.

Her hand slipped between his legs and gripped his hardening cock. “See? Again you say ‘NO’ but this says something else.”

Something touched his asshole and his body jolted fully awake. His wail was cut short by another unseen piece of fabric jammed into his mouth. Was she wearing that scarf again? he wondered-then could only grunt as something pressed-hard, cold and large-against his anus. He cried out soundlessly feeling himself opening wide as he was slowly penetrated. He yelped helplessly as the forces holding him ratcheted tighter and heavier.

He awoke with a start, his trip-hammering heart pounding in his ears. Pink clouds were scudding across the perfect blue sky but he couldn’t see them with his face in the pillows as he vigorously humped his mattress to the screeching disapproval of the old box springs. Coming to consciousness, he quickly rolled onto his side to stop the action and looked down at his engorged cock waving like a mast on a stormy sea.

He put the palm of his hand on the thick head as if he would tamp it down as a child might a jack-in-the-box. Nope, that wasn’t helping and by the pulsing feel of the thing he had caught it not a moment too soon. Remembering, he reached tentatively back to feel his backside-then gently, between his cheeks. Nope. Nothing. What a fucking dream! He sat up carefully. His hard-on, ignored, began to collapse in on itself like a pocket telescope.

He stood and shivered then looked around for his clothes. Then he saw it and froze but not from the cold. His hat was hanging on the back of the chair. He picked it up and caught a whiff of leaves and woods and-for a moment- something sickeningly sweet and rotten. Like old fruit or meat left in the sun. Regardless, he put it onto his head and without adjustment, it fit perfectly.

There, naked but for his hat, he looked out the window at the path that left the yard and wound east where it would eventually meet up with the trail that led to the ruins-then up into the hollow. It’s a walk he would be taking later today, you better bet.

Foggy Morning

Hotbottoms

Hotbottoms

It was full dark when he awoke. He didn’t “wake up” because waking up required completion of a particular set of steps: opening eyes, rubbing eyes, sitting up, flopping feet to the floor and so on. The owl sounding back in the oak and the singing underlayment of the crickets told him that it was still deep night.  If he looked at the clock he’d be ruined so he kept his eyes gently closed and slipped back under.

When he next stirred, the dim light of dawn slithered through the fog and painted the room in shades of gray. He opened one eye slowly and, with his tongue, pushed the wet pillow out of his mouth. What the hell was that dream? He simultaneously couldn’t remember nor shake it. He knew he was being pushed down-someone was on him-holding him. He felt the weight in the small of his back and recalled the pain of someone behind him-above him really-slapping his ass. Slapping his bare ass while he bit down on….it was his pillow. It had to have been a hairbrush or a paddle-something-it hurt too much to have just been a hand spanking. He thinks he was alone in this dream. The night before last, when he was caned, there had been an audience.

The pain that existed only in his head dissipated as he became conscious of the true ache of his hard-on trying to burrow its way into the mattress. He rolled toward her side to allow it free range. That side of the bed was as empty as it had been for two months.

First, after she left, there had been the sex dreams; the coupling, lapping, sucking, teeth clicking and fluid swapping that had left him cold. In fairness, the sex with her had been fine but the dreams left him with nothing. Following within a couple of weeks were the conversation dreams which hardly interrupted his sleep at all. It was hard enough staying awake through her conversations when she was there in the flesh.

Now there were these pain dreams. And not just pain but punishment; whippings, paddlings, spankings canings…and humiliation. There were gigglers in the audience and people holding him down. He remembered smelling fire and women-more than a couple-talking about branding him as he lay tied on the ground. These were the dreams that were now bringing him the hard-ons. Where would this end? He feared the night when he would feel someone on top of him, crushing him-spreading his cheeks and…Christ!

He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside the window the thick fog obscured all. He stood and grabbed his pants then paused wondering how he was going to get a pair of pants over that. Why even bother; there was nobody in the house but him. He bobbed down the hallway to the kitchen-a lone flag bearer in the most pitiful parade.

The coffee, on a timer, was brewed and waiting for him. By the time he had poured his first cup and added cream the dream had faded and he was well deflated. Things seemed to slip back into their state of abnormalcy. He stepped naked onto the porch and sipped his coffee listening to the honks of the geese growing fainter in the fog as they too flew the coop.